


One Foot in Front of the Other

by ALittleBitofThis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Broken Bones, First Aid, Fugitives, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Peter Parker, Medical Examination, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Canon, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 00:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALittleBitofThis/pseuds/ALittleBitofThis
Summary: Set after the credit scenes in Spider-Man Far From Home, Peter's on the run. However, he's going to have some problems with the "running" part of that. In other words, Peter breaks his ankle in a getaway and finds help in an unexpected place. Slight whump from broken bones and lack of proper medical care.





	One Foot in Front of the Other

**Author's Note:**

> Too afraid to turn himself in, Peter's been on the run for some number of weeks, but it hasn't kept him from stopping crimes when he sees them. Consequently, he's still got police on his tail. After walking into an ambush, Peter takes a hard fall, but he can't afford to go to the hospital.

“Peter Parker, return to the ground now!” A PA shouts, cutting through the crisp night air. Spider-Man ignores the police, continuing to swing down the street. He was trying to get home and sneak a look to see how Aunt May was doing, but they were waiting for him.

Peter hears the pops of gunshots, but he knows from his Peter tingle that they won’t hit him. What he doesn’t know, however, is that they’re going to hit the rope he’s swinging on. Peter’s stomach jumps up into his chest as he’s unexpectedly freefalling, and he shoots another web out, but this part of queens doesn’t have as many tall buildings. It’s fine. He can just land and run up a wall to pick up a new line. More pops fill the air, and Peter twists his body to avoid them, completely forgetting the imminent ground.

Peter lands roughly, much more than intended, and he actually falls sideways from the impact. A car is shielding him for the moment, but he doesn’t want the police to catch up to him, so he’s slingshotting himself up to a roof before he can even catch his breath. He lands and falls onto his side again, feeling the gravel of the flat roof dig into his skin through the suit. Pain shoots up his right leg. Spider-Man pulls his knee to his chest with a hiss of pain and looks at the leg. His foot is bent to the side… it shouldn’t look like that.

“Peter, it appears that you’ve critically fractured your ankle. I recommended ceasing activity to seek proper medical care,” Karen chimes. Peter shakes his head. He can hear helicopters in the distance.

“Sorry, Kar. I can’t,” Spider-Man hisses. He only has a minute or two before he needs to move. He army crawls to the satellite on the roof, and with a whispered apology, he tears off two of the supporting poles. He uses them to fashion a weak splint, only secured by a boatload of webbing. The helicopters are getting closer.

Peter uses the remains of the satellite to help himself up, keeping the weight off his right leg. He tries to put some weight on it, but he has to bite his lip in pain. It’s bad. Really bad. He’ll have to try and get back to his hideout without landing once.

Spider-Man hops to the side of the roof and shoots his webs in a new direction. He takes a deep breath and pushes off, doing his best to stay as high as he can off the ground. He makes a lot of turns and even a few circles to throw off anyone that he hasn’t shaken yet, but he knows it won’t solve the problem of the helicopter. Peter swings towards an area where the buildings are taller, and he goes a little lower. If he sticks closer to the buildings, they’ll have less chance of seeing him from above.

It’s another 10 minutes of swinging with a throbbing leg before the police radio finally reports that they’ve lost him, and Spider-Man can swing more directly to his hiding spot.

It’s a mostly vacant building near the train tracks, and some property collector owns it, so the government hasn’t taken it over. However, it’s still marked as condemned and a safety hazard, so no one goes in. No one except for Peter and a few daring squatters from time to time.

Peter catches himself on the side of the building, not daring to touch the ground yet. He pries back the wooden board over a broken window, wriggling through the gap until he hits the ground on the inside. Peter grunts as the concrete meets his shoulder unforgivingly.

He tries to breathe for a moment, exhausted from swinging. As his adrenaline dies down, the pain just cranks up. His whole lower leg radiates stabbing sensations. After what feels like half an hour, Peter drags himself to a sitting position, leaning against the wall under the window.

“Karen, give me first aid instructions,” Peter says. He lies on his back and taps his logo to loosen the suit. He shimmies out of the suit from the neck down, just keeping his mask so that he can hear Karen.

“Check that the splint isn’t on too tight.”

“How do I do that?”

“Check that your ankles are the same temperature,” Karen instructs, and Peter doesn’t really understand why that’s important, but he’s going to trust her here. There are no hospitals for him.

“They’re the same.”

“Can you wiggle your toes and know which toe you touch at different points?” Karen asks.

“Y-Yeah,” Peter says, although it hurts his ankle to move the toes.

“Great. The splint does not sound too tight, so you should be stable until you reach a doctor,” Karen chirps.

“No doctors,” Peter reminds. “What can I do to help it heal?”

“The most backed method is the RICE method. Rest, Ice, Compress, and Elevate.”

“Well,” Peter mumbles, looking around the barren apartment. “I can do three of those.” There’s no fridge or anything, so ice isn’t an option. However, he’s already compressing his ankle with the webs, and he can sleep for a bit. Peter grabs his webshooter and webs his backpack from across the room, pulling it closer to him.

He reaches inside, pulling out a chemistry textbook. He stands it next to the wall, and he frowns. He hopes this won’t ruin the book. He attaches some webs to the bottom, securing the textbook to the floor, and then he connects several strands of webbing between the front cover and the wall, creating a little nook with stretchy cords.

Peter lays back on the floor, grabbing his leg and painfully maneuvering it to the nook so it’s properly elevated. Peter gasps in relief when he gets it there, carefully stretching out on the ground. He tucks his backpack under his head. He’s cold, so he reaches for the suit, pulling it over him and his boxers like a blanket. He passes out soon after.

* * *

Peter wakes up to a hand touching his shoulder, and he flinches. No one should know he’s here. He needs to go. However, the movement resulted in a jolt of pain from his ankle, and he gasps quietly.

“Hey, hey,” A man’s voice says, and the hand pulls away. “Calm down.”

Peter swivels his head, mask still on, to face the man. “Karen, run scans,” He squeaks. The blue wave that washes over his vision returns no reports of drones, just a summary of who the man is. He isn’t a cop. He’s got some sort of Ph.D.

“Hey there. No need to panic,” The skinny male assures, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. He takes a step back to show he means no harm. Peter forces himself to a sitting position, still watching.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Peter asks.

“I’m a doctor. I know these buildings are hazardous, so I try to come through every few weeks and check on everyone,” he explains. “My name is Bentley. I’m just here to help.”

Peter just stares at him, trying to decide if he can trust him. He doesn’t trust many people these days. This could be someone that the NYPD recruited to distract him. Bentley relaxes his arms, but neither of them speak for a minute. He glances over the teenager.

“Your leg looks hurt. Do you want me to take a look at it?” Bentley offers.

“I don’t have much money,” Peter says. “I’m a fugitive.”

“I don’t care about all that. I just want to help,” Bentley promises.

“Why?” Peter asks, still untrusting.

“Full of questions, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” Peter says, although for once in his life, he doesn’t really mean the apology. He needs to keep himself safe. He’d say he needs to keep everyone he cares about safe too, but he already cut them off. That’s as safe as he can keep them.

“No, it’s okay,” Bentley says, giving a small smile. “I’d want to know if I were you, too… I just try to help people in bad situations. My brother was homeless once. I didn’t help him when I should’ve. I try to make up for it now.”

“There are organizations for that,” Peter points out, still cautious. “Like Feast or Doctors without Borders.” Bentley shakes his head.

“None of those groups will come in here. They’re too concerned about the health and safety of their volunteers to give those kinds of orders. I do this on my own.”

“Oh,” Peter says, looking down a little. He’s about to ask why the doctor would risk himself for others, but he realizes that it’s what he himself does for a living.

“So can I look at our friendly neighborhood ankle?” Bentley asks again. Peter snaps out of it.

“Uh, sure…. I guess..,” Peter mumbles. It can’t get broken any worse. Most of the webbing from the night before had dissolved, and his movement from waking up had broken what was left on the textbook. He leans forward toward his foot, pulling away the loose strands.

Bentley swings off his backpack and sets it down, rummaging through it. He pulls out a headlamp. “I know it looks a little weird… it’s just kinda dingy in here,” Bentley excuses, switching on the headlamp. He squats down next to Peter. “Can I get you to switch to leaning against the wall?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says, and he lets Bentley help him rotate. The doctor sits in front of him.

“Is it okay if I rest your calf on my thigh?” Bentley asks, and he waits for Peter to nod before gingerly grabbing the injured leg and pulling it into place. Now that the light is on it, Peter can see the swelling and bruising around his ankle. His chest tightens a little. What if he has to run again?

“Okay, can you feel this?” Bentley touches his toes and waits.

“Yeah,” Peter says, although it’s a bit uncomfortable. He bites his lips and hums an affirmation when Bentley squeezes his big toe.

“Well, your circulation isn’t messed up, which is good because it means we don’t need to cut your leg off,” Bentley explains. Peter frowns and doesn’t respond. Bentley’s face falls. “Sorry… bad joke. Do you uh… want to take your mask off? It’s usually a bit easier when I can see patients’ faces, and I know who you are anyway,” He adds awkwardly. Peter sighs.

“Karen, switch to speaker mode and tell me if there’s anything I need to know,” Peter instructs, and he carefully peels the mask off. His hair is matted down from being under it all the time. He doesn’t really take it off these days, always paranoid that some cop or someone else is going to sneak up on him. Bentley offers a small smile of thanks and doesn’t comment on how greasy Peter’s hair looks or the size of the dark circles under his eyes.

“Alright, go ahead and wiggle your toes for me,” Bentley instructs. Peter does so with a bit of a grimace.

“It hurts a bit,” Peter says, and Bentley just nods.

“What happened?”

“I landed wrong, I guess. It hurt a lot, but I just splinted it until I got back and then elevated it,” Peter answers.

“Good. The-the elevation I mean,” Bentley clarifies, and Peter shrugs. “Did it look weird afterward?”

“A bit bent out of place- more than it should’ve. I think I- er, probably broke it,” Peter mumbles.

“Well we won’t know for sure until I get you in for an x-Ray,” Bentley says. Peter frowns.

“I can’t.”

“It’s hard to assess without a-“

“No hospitals,” Peter insists. He reaches for the wrist of his suit in case he needs webs. He can’t have this man calling 911. Bentley doesn’t miss the motion.

“I could bring you to my office?” Bentley offers hopefully.

“You’re not putting yourself in danger like that,” Peter refuses. “I don’t want anyone to get in trouble for me.”

Bentley looks at him for a moment before cracking a small smile. “And they say you killed someone, huh?”

“What?” Peter furrows his brow at the sudden shift.

“You’re a good kid. I don’t think you’d have it in you. Not quite the power-crazed maniac the news says you are, are you?” The doctor says, and Peter realizes he’s saying he doesn’t think Peter is guilty. It doesn’t change anything though. He’s still wanted, and he still can’t go anywhere in public. He’s not guilty, but he doesn’t really think he’s innocent either.

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter says dejectedly. “He killed himself and tried to kill hundreds of others with tech that  _ I _ gave him access to. That’s on me.”

Neither of them speak for a moment, but Bentley sighs in defeat. He continues to inspect Peter’s foot. “Look, I’m at least going to try and feel that your foot is set right. It might hurt a bit, Okay?”

“‘Kay,” Peter mumbles, not meeting his eyes. Bentley presses his thumbs along the sides of his calf and ankle, and despite trying to be gentle, it draws a pained hiss from Peter. He starts to pull his leg back out of reflex when Bentley gets to a certain spot, but he stops himself. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bentley pulls his hands away to give Peter a moment before continuing his check. A couple of minutes and a couple of pained sounds later, Bentley finally lets go. “Your ankle is aligned right. You just need to make sure it doesn’t get any worse. I’ll help you splint it again.”

“Thanks,” Peter passes him the metal rods he stole the night before. Bentley rummages around in his bag a bit more and produces a roll of bandaging. He looks at Peter for a moment, pausing, and then he looks around a bit more, finding a protein bar. He holds it out for him. Peter’s manners tell him he shouldn’t take it, but his stomach almost lurches at the sight of food. He’s barely been surviving with how fast his metabolism works. “You don’t need to give me your food.”

“I can literally see your ribs. You need something for your body to run off of,” Bentley insists, and Peter doesn’t have the willpower to turn him down. Even though he hates taking things from people, he accepts the bar, mustering most of his self-control not to swallow it whole. While Peter is distracted, Bentley starts on the splint around his ankle. His features crease in worry as he covers it up.

“You’re going to need to get this looked at professionally at some point,” Bentley says. Peter pauses and swallows.

“You’re a professional,” he reasons.

“No. I mean, yes, I am, but this looks like it’ll need surgery down the line if you don’t get it taken care of now,” Bentley explains. “Please, let me bring you to my office.”

“No,” Peter says firmly, and he musters enough force into his voice to show that he means it. Bentley frowns and finishes wrapping him up. He starts to tuck the extra bandages away, but he stops. He has a feeling the kid might need them. He sets it on the ground between them, along with another couple protein bars and a water bottle. Peter already starts calculating how he’s going to ration it. It’ll probably take a week for his ankle to heal, and he probably can’t scavenge much until at least 3 or 4 days have passed. Bentley puts his headlamp back into his bag, and he pulls said bag over his shoulder.

“Are you gonna be alright?” Bentley asks. Peter shrugs.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Do you have other food? Anyone to check in on you?” Bentley asks. “I can swing by, if you want.”

“I said I’ll be fine,” Peter reaffirms. He supposes he’ll have to move locations tonight…

“Okay, well,” Bentley stands a little awkwardly. “I’m going to finish my rounds. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you,” Peter says, waiting for the man to be out of the room before relaxing. He looks down at his probably-crippled-for-now leg. He can try to move somewhere the doctor can’t find him after dark, but he’s toast if anyone sees him. It’s going to be hard to get anywhere. He can hear Dr.Bentley moving around on the floors above him, but eventually, he hears the descent of footsteps on the stairs. They stop on his floor for a moment and linger, but then the footsteps resume, and just like that, Peter is on his own again.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got around to writing some Fugitive!Peter in between my classes, extracurriculars, and other WIPs (which I promise I haven't forgotten). Thank you for reading!


End file.
